Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is my second time dipping my toes into Tolkien's universe and my first time trying the 'soul bond' trope in the Hobbit fandom. So, I greatly appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The main pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) with a hint of Bagginshield if you squint.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug' if you squint. This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. This is also a 'soul-bond' fic. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, age difference. Timeline? What timeline? Dwarvish courting rituals/traditions/culture, slash, and smut.
Mahal's Script
Chapter Three
The journey to the Shire was surprisingly pleasant, if you liked the green. The air was different here, infused with gentle things, soft scents of lavender and honey. He'd probably spent more time sneezing than anything.
Thank Mahal he'd decided to journey alone. Wouldn't do for any of the others to watch Dwalin son of Fundin sniffling and snorting, scaring the small folk every bloody sneeze, after all.
He wasn't exactly sure what to make of it when a tiny little sprite of a girl, all black curls and bright brown eyes darted between his legs when he stopped for a breather outside the town center. Her soft giggles reminded him of Kili when he'd been around the same age, all wobbly limbs and mischievous eyes.
It took him a moment to find her again, but when he did, she had a little fist pressed firmly to her mouth, smiling shyly, holding up a rose-patterned handkerchief just before his eyes started watering. She scampered off, beckoned back by a wary looking father before he could say anything. But the nod of thanks he granted them before he moved on seemed acknowledgement enough.
Strange folk, these halflings.
Kind hearted, but strange.
He'd been on edge ever since they'd left Eres Lund, stuck between wanting to ride ahead and slink back home. Half of him wanted to forget all about dragons and finding his one as the enormity of what they were actually doing finally settled across his drooping shoulders.
Dori and Nori just exchanged looks they thought he couldn't see behind him. He shook his head. They meant well, but he wasn't ready to share. Not just yet. The possibility of meeting his one was too new – too fresh. He felt that if he said it out loud he'd somehow be cursing them both.
It wasn't until they met up with the others, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, first – the rest two days later just outside of Hobbiton – that his stomach slowly began to settle. He felt more calm, more level-headed than he'd been in weeks. He even got a bit of writing in, scribbling in his journal, the one he'd made specifically for their travels, with an eager hand.
Perhaps he would meet his one on the journey to Erebor?
Perhaps they weren't even part of the company, like he'd originally assumed?
He was only half listening – too busy shoving the dining room table deeper into the room - as Kili and Fili nattered on, babbling excitedly about their journey and how tiny the Shire-folk seemed - when the doorbell chimed.
He snorted to himself as the hobbit stomped down the hall, flinging Kili and Fili's weapons down on his mother's glory box as he yelled something about 'dwarves' and 'dining rooms' before the door swung open and what looked like half the dwarves of Erebor spilled across the front carpet.
He leaned against the wall, one shoulder propping himself up as Gandalf peered inside. Tharkun seemed to take no notice of the tangle of dwarves at his feet, not even as their host eyed the dodgy old grey beard with a look that seemed to infer that this was all, somehow, the wizard's fault. He snorted. He wasn't sure why the Halfling looked so surprised. He'd known they were coming; after all, it wasn't as though the wizard hadn't told him when he'd decided to invite him along on their quest.
Besides, who in their right mind stocks a larder that full if they weren't expecting company?
He recognized a few of them as they lurched to their feet, helping each other up as the odd "get your arse out of my face!" and "your elbow is in my spleen!" rose up from the pile. He knew Gloin from his time on city watch – first in Erebor and again in Eres Lund; Oin from the healer's quarters whose poking and prodding he'd suffered far more times than he cared to count. He knew Dori from his trade dealings with Balin. And Nori – the little shit – well, he'd arrested him more times than he figured any guardsman had a right too.
His brow rose a bit when the Ri brothers dug deep through the pile, upsetting Bofur and Bombur as they hauled a smaller dwarf to his feet. He'd heard they had a younger brother but had never met him. He hadn't even known the youngling was of age, in fact.
"Ori!"
Kili and Fili squeezed past with a happy wriggle, enveloping the smaller figure with a brand of gusto that the red-haired dwarf seemed well accustomed too. Pulling himself free from Dori's mothering as the three of them knocked heads, yammering excitedly about their travels as Dori rolled his eyes and reached down to help Bofur to his feet.
His gaze moved on, mentally counting through the pile as Bilbo tried to make himself heard above the din. The next second his mark throbbed.
His eyes snapped back, instinctively fixing on the youngest Ri the same moment the dwarf looked up, eyes wide as saucers before the world, as it was, seemed to flip on its axis.
When it happened, he wasn't ready. You'd think after all this time, all this waiting and worrying, he would've at least expected it. That he would have been ready for the rush of fire that coursed through his veins, spinning out from the very heart of him as all the air in the room left in a rush.
His journal fell out of his hand, knocking against Kili's knee before hitting the ground in a flutter of loose papers and cracked bindings. He gasped, clutching his arm as molten heat rushed through him, bubbling up from the source, his mark, as a feeling of warmth and peace washed over him. Then he looked up and met eyes with the biggest, most intimidating dwarf he'd ever seen.
And honestly, all he could really think was that this couldn't possibly end well.
He blinked, eyes wide as his heart leapt in his chest. The dwarf was a warrior – Nori had been right after all – he was large, fierce and covered in scars. Handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way he'd never realized he found appealing until it was suddenly staring him in the face.
He'd never seen someone more his opposite. Admittedly, that shouldn't have been a problem. Only – it was. Because instead of a feeling of wholeness and completion the only thing he kept coming back to was this had to be some sort of mistake. After all, how could this be his one? He was a warrior, full bearded and confident in all the ways he was not.
Worse, he recognized him. He knew him from the tales that Kili and Fili had told him of their Uncle and his friend Dwalin son of Fundin – a distant sister-cousin to the line of Durin. He'd grown up eagerly listening to their exploits in battle, celebrating their victories and mourning their losses - play fighting with the urchins of the Blue Mountains, the Iron Hills, and beyond.
And after all that, this was to be his one?!
He fidgeted, fingers tangling with the hem of his sweater. He could hear the others talking, Fili was saying something, something he should probably be listening to but it was all distant, muffled.
It didn't seem right – or even fair. It didn't seem right that such a great warrior was stuck with him for his other half. His cheeks heated in sorrow and shame, lowering his eyes when he realized he had an audience. He didn't begrudge the dwarf his expression as he glared, there was confusion, a pained sort of bemusement that was filtered through with something he didn't recognize as the sounds of the room rushed back. If he was in his place, he might have even done the same.
Self-doubt was quick to set in as the big dwarf took his measure, looking at him as though he'd never seen anything quite like him as the conversation around them trickled to a standstill. His mind raced, belly churning as the dwarf's beard twitched. Was he disappointed? Did his one not want him?
He went cold as the thought settled in and grew roots.
Mahal, what a nightmare!
Before he realized his feet were moving, he found himself halfway across the room. He knelt down, picking up the book that had fallen from the lad's grip. Recognition jolted through him as he ran his fingers down the familiar bindings, thumbing the runes, the dog-eared edges as he tidied the papers and slipped them back between the covers.
He knew them all by heart, and for good reason. They matched his mark down to the last ragged page, that one small little imperfection in the leather that gave the center a slightly faded look.
He closed his eyes, heart thumping so hard in his chest he swore the others could hear. There could be little doubt of it now. The lad was his one. His mark sparked – hissing pleasantly just under his skin in clear agreement.
He glanced down, hunching his shoulders. Suddenly grateful he hadn't thought to take off his furs; sure his mark would by shining clear through his tunic by now, pearling across the walls with a shattered prism of pure gold. From what the silver-beards said, it would be of the same ilk it'd been that day when it'd first been etched. The day his one had been born.
He was about to say something, book in hand, as good feelings thrummed though him, thoughts sluggish and warm when he noticed the expression on the lad's face. Horror washed through him as Ori's face visibly paled. He hadn't considered that his one wouldn't take to him. He'd always assumed it was a given, that they'd meet and everything else would fall into place – make sense. But by the look on the youngling's face, that certainly wasn't the case.
Irritation and uncertainly rose.
What if this was all just some big mistake? A misunderstanding?
Dori was the only one that seemed to notice something was amiss, pulling the lad to his side and dusting him off, paying him no mind as the boy clutched at his arm, eyes wide. The eldest Ri seemed to be waiting for Ori to say something, anything.
He quivered in place, fighting the desire to let his body do the talking and what needed to be done, said. The lad was his one, strange as it was.
But then-
"I'm fine, Dori. It's nothing, I-I just fell a bit wrong is all," Ori stuttered, lashes lowering as he looked away. Dori just pursed his lips, appearing frustrated at his brother's resistance. But that was before the older dwarf followed his brother's stare and saw him.
Dori's mouth opened and closed like a flounder before realization filtered across his face, and suddenly he was elbowing Nori, gesturing wildly as the poor lad looked like he wanted to slip right between the floor boards. His throat felt heavy, thick and almost suffocating as he forced himself to swallow.
His one wouldn't meet his eyes.
The thin thread of warmth that had survived his initial misgivings snapped, the action abrupt and violent in a way that was only made worse when Ori wouldn't meet his gaze. His mark hummed, urging him to walk forward – to take – claim – and have even as every sullied inch of him screamed the exact opposite.
If this was his one, Mahal was playing a cruel trick indeed.
When he dropped the book, the sound not unlike a thunder clap, it drew the eyes of everyone in the room. But by the time they found their tongues, he was already moving, shoving himself through the crowd and away from prying eyes as he headed right for the ale cask.
He needed a drink, or five.
Hell, maybe the whole barrel.
The Halfling probably had more than a few spares lying around.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Hope you enjoyed the latest installment. There will be more to come and soon!
Reference #1: "Tharkun." is Gandalf's dwarvish name. Khuzdul for 'staff-man' or 'grey man,' as per canon.
